


a show all on its own

by portions_forfox



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-23
Updated: 2012-07-23
Packaged: 2017-11-10 12:39:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portions_forfox/pseuds/portions_forfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Stiles is making out with Derek on Scott's bed but "it's not what it looks like!", Derek needs to keep his eyebrows where they ought to be and Scott may or may not have erotic dreams about Danny in a hot tub, only <i>don't tell anyone, man</i>!</p>
            </blockquote>





	a show all on its own

**Author's Note:**

> I imagine this is set maybe a year from the current canon, so Scott and Stiles are in their Junior year and la di da. Dialogue-heavy crack fluff weirdness, I guess. Title from the Wolf(!) Parade song "Grounds for Divorce."

So, here's the thing. Scott is having like a really, really, really shitty day.  
  
There's some sort of, like, werewolf convention or whatever the shit you call a pack meeting (you call it a pack meeting, fyi), only it's happening  _right here in town_. (Well. Not in like the middle of the street or whatever. But in the woods within the town. Duh.) Which, fine, werewolves gotta socialize—except the Werewolf Association of America (Derek insists with unceasingly rolling eyes that such an organization doesn't actually exist, but  _how else would they all know to come here_ , Scott wants to know. Stiles guessed, "Werewolf Floo Network?" and Derek slapped him upside the head: "What did we agree about Harry Potter references, Stiles." Stiles nursed his wound and muttered something about Remus Lupin being a way nicer dude, and Derek's lips twitched up at the corners) decided it was a good idea for every single fucking werewolf on the West Coast (seriously,  _all_  of them. There's a guy from  _Portland_ , for god's sake. An actual hipster werewolf) to meet up in the worst possible location anyone could think up, namely the headquarters of the oldest secret badass werewolf-hunting family in the history of ever. So, yeah. Not a good plan.  
  


Scott's been trying to subtly usher these people out of town for three days now, primarily by wandering into their camp, waving his arms and shouting "You guys gotta go!" (and then getting distracted because Hipster Werewolf Guy brought a shit ton of Voodoo donuts, man.)  
  
On top of that, Allison's mad at him because he'd wondered aloud—so innocently, so,  _so_  innocently!—  
how Erica's boobs managed to keep getting bigger and bigger like every month since her transformation, and this wouldn't be such an issue if Allison didn't have the extraordinarily high accuracy rate that she did when it came to shooting arrows at people. Plus, like—the SATs? Did you know they're actually really hard? Ugh.

  
All of this amounts to Scott trudging up the stairs melodramatically, while his mum cuts out the vacuum, stands at the bottom of the staircase with her hands on her hips and yells, "Could you please not slam your foot down so hard on every step? If you want to brood you can take it out on Stiles like you usually do instead of abusing my hard-wood floors, bro." Which obviously only makes the situation worse, on account of "Ugh, Mom, could you please not say bro? It's—weird."  
  
She shrugs. "Deal with it, bro. And be nice to my floors."  
  
Scott whirls around and mimics her pose (unfortunately, this is not on purpose. He gets accidentally sassy when he's grumpy). "Actually, Mom, I  _can't_  vent all my anger to Stiles, because Stiles is, like, never around anymore."  
  
"Is that right?" She arches an eyebrow.  
  
"Yeah!" Scott huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. "He keeps like making up excuses not to see me. 'Oh, I have to take out the garbage;' 'Oh, I promised I'd watch  _Die Hard_  with my dad;' 'Oh, I have to study for the SATs.' Psh."  
  
"I see," Scott's mom sees. "And how do you know he's not telling the truth?"  
  
Scott makes an impatient sound in the back of his throat and plants one hand on his hip. "Because father-son movie night is  _Wednesday_ , Mom. And Stiles has an IQ of like a bajillion, so he doesn't need to study."  
  
"Hm," she intones, folding her arms. "So you're saying he's never around?"  
  
"Never," Scott repeats gloomily.  
  
"Never's a pretty big word, Scott."  
  
"Never ever ever," Scott says, mainly, you know, to be annoying.  
  
"You sure about that?"  
  
He pauses, mouth open, and points a finger at her. "What's this?" he prods. "What's this about?"  
  
She smiles sugar-sweetly. "He's waiting in your room, Scott." The vacuum rears to life and she turns her back to him on her way to the living room, raising her voice, "He came by just after school and I told him you'd be home in a couple hours. Because I  _thought_  you had that Physics test to make up. But instead—lo and behold—you're home early." She shoots him a pointed glance over her shoulder.  
  
Scott groans. Whatever. Endangered werewolf conventions are like so much higher up on his list of priorities right now. Right after the whole Erica's-boobs debacle.  
  
He stomps the rest of the way up the steps, ensuring his footsteps are abnormally light to avoid more motherly lectures, and then storms down the hallway in full on bitch-'n'-moan mode. Stiles  _has_  to hear about this Erica thing, he'll totally agree.  
  
Scott flings open the door to his room and widens his stance, prepared to let out a huge, woeful sigh, but instead finds the word  _Aglogagluck!_  bubbling up in his throat. ( _Agloragluck_  is not a word, by the way. The English language should never have to be butchered the way Scott just butchered it, never ever ever again, but at that moment in time there was really no escaping it, because—)  
  
There is someone on top of Stiles. There is someone on top of Stiles, shirtless. There is someone on top of Stiles, shirtless and writhing and  _muscly_. There is someone on top of Stiles and sweet baby Jesus fuck that someone is Derek Hale.  
  
Naturally, Scott begins with a loud, squeaky, "What," and ends with a nice, "the fuck!" to round it out.  
  
Derek— _Derek Hale_ —unpeels himself from Stiles's (naked!!!) chest and blinks up at Scott in surprise. Yeah, Scott's been trying and failing to catch Derek off-guard for like,  _ever_  now, essentially by jumping out at him from behind the door whenever he comes out of the bathroom, but it is safe to say  _this is not how he wanted to accomplish that goal_.  
  
"You could've knocked," says Derek.  
  
Um.  
  
No.  
  
Scott makes a noise in the back of his throat that's dangerously close to an indignant, Lydia-esque  _Uh!_  "This is  _my room_!" he shrieks, and great, he's been reduced to shrieking now.  
  
Stiles looks up at him, brown eyes enlarged to near-Dobby-like proportions and arms frozen around Derek's neck(!!!).  
  
He chokes out, "This isn't—"  
  
"—don't say 'what it looks like'—"  
  
"—what it looks like."  
  
Scott's eyebrows are somewhere up in the vicinity of his hairline now. He realizes he's thrown his arms out on either side of his body and is currently assuming the crazy-eyed position of one of those schizophrenic psychos from  _Girl, Interrupted_  just before the hospital workers tackle him and he pees himself. (And yes, he's seen  _Girl, Interrupted_. It's—whatever.)  
  
"You," Scott whispers dazedly, a shaking finger pointed at Derek, "had your tongue," the finger quivers to the left, hovering there, "in his mouth."  
  
Derek groans and heaves himself off Stiles's (naked!!!) chest and onto the opposite side of the bed, throwing his arms over his head and sighing moodily at the ceiling. Like this is seriously  _his_  bad day.  _No_.  
  
Stiles sits up, raising his hands in defense. "Listen," he begins in his reasoning tone, "this doesn't change anything."  
  
"Doesn't—blrghfmk!" Scott replies, only  _blrghfmk_  is even less of a word than  _aglorgagluck_ , because Scott is seventy-five-percent sure it didn't come from his vocal chords. "This changes  _everything_ , are you kidding me?"  
  
"N—we just—we just make out sometimes, I swear. That's all it is."  
  
"On  _my bed_?" Woops, there goes the shrieking again. He should really get that shit under control.  
  
"Well, no," Stiles assures him. "But... I came here, and your mom said you wouldn't be home for a few hours and I got bored so I just... called Derek."  
  
"You got bored... so you called Derek Hale. For a booty call. On my bed."  
  
"I'm right here, jackass," Derek reminds him, tossing Scott a glare. He tilts his head on the pillow (Scott's pillow, dammit!) to squint in annoyance at Stiles. "And I'm not your booty call, you little punk."  
  
"You kind of are, though," Stiles smirks, which is quickly followed by a vehement "Ow!" after Derek smacks him upside the head.  
  
Scott snaps his fingers at them (the sassy-grumpy thing is still happening) "Hey! Hey! Focus!"  
  
"Sorry, right," Stiles agrees, sobering up while he rubs at his forehead. "Um, so I was saying... oh right, everything'll be the same."  
  
Scott taps his foot, lips pursing. His mom does this when he doesn't turn in his homework on time.  
  
"So... you're telling me nothing's changed?"  
  
"Y—th—exactly!" Stiles tosses one hand up in the air and lets it smack down onto his thigh again. His pale skinny little Stilinski thigh. His  _bare_  pale skinny little Stilinski thigh.  _God_ , those boxers ride up high. "That's exactly what I'm saying. Like—Lydia!" He points out, smoothing his hand through the air in a palm-up motion to prove his point. "I'm still in love with Lydia!"  
  
At this Derek groans again and rolls his eyes, flopping his head back onto (Scott's, dammit!) pillow. "God, don't even get me started."  
  
"What's he—" Scott starts to ask, but Stiles interrupts, "Don't worry about it." He frowns at Derek while still speaking to Scott, "It's not. A big. Deal."  
  
Derek lifts his head up and narrows his eyes at Stiles. " 'Not a big deal?' " He repeats, raising both eyebrows emphatically. He turns his gaze to Scott and recounts, "Last week Stiles yelled out 'Lydia!' just before he came. I don't know about you—"  
  
"—oh God, don't bring me into this, man—"  
  
"—but I don't appreciate being confused with a ninety-five-pound, five-foot-three, cow-eyed redhead."  
  
"Strawberry blonde, actually."  
  
"Shut up."  
  
"Yep."  
  
Scott shifts his weight and fixes one hand to his hip (again)—turns out a lot of what he does when he's angry is kind of an imitation of his mom, 'cause like, she made this exact same motion when he told her he had to spend the night at Stiles's on a weekday on account of it was Yom Kippur and the Stilinskis were devout Jews—and furrows his brow even tighter. "I'm sorry," he interjects, even though he's like so  _not_  sorry, "but didn't you say this was like a make-out only thing? But you were—"  
  
"Okay, so there's some handjobs involved!" Stiles admits shrilly, slouching. A beat passes and hee straightens up excitedly to say, "But nothing more than that, I swear!"  
  
Scott would be tempted to believe him if Derek didn't snort.  
  
"What, it's true!" Stiles insists, twisting to face Derek and waving his arms wildly. Arm-waving is kind of Stiles's way of arguing a point. (Needless to say, he quit mock trial after like a week.)  
  
"Okay," Derek shrugs. He lifts his chin up. "Dare you to say that with my dick in your mouth."  
  
"Whoa whoa whoa, TMI, TMI!" Scott interrupts, wagging his palms. "I don't need to know all the—the—gory details."  
  
Derek's face screws up in irritation. " 'TMI'?" he quotes. "I thought no one's used that phrase since the nineties."  
  
"Nice one, man," Stiles laughs, extending his fist for a solid bump, which Derek out of respect for himself does not return. He does smile and shrug, though, like,  _What can I say?_  
  
"Hey! Whoa! Stop! None of that—" Scott sweeps his hands in a circular motion, grimacing. "—buddy-buddy stuff. It's... weird, and unnatural."  
  
"What, the fact that we give each other blowjobs?" Derek asks with an accusing eyebrow-raise (this household needs to learn to keep its fucking eyebrows where they belong, god _damn!_ )  
  
"What the—" Scott screeches, his voice up an octave unintentionally. This is the shit they've put him through, fucking voice cracks four years after puberty was supposed to be sweetly, graciously over. "Damn, man, what did I say about gory details!"  
  
Stiles jerks his head to the side, shifting his (pale skinny little Stilinski) legs under him so the bed creaks. "Hey, whatever, Scott, don't act like guy-on-guy blowjobs are so weird to you. You told me all about your recurring erotic dreams with Danny in a hot tub."  
  
"You d—guh!" Scott widens his eyes and throws his hands up in exasperation. " _I told you not to tell anyone about those!_ " he hisses.  
  
"Too late," Derek remarks disinterestedly, and when Scott looks back at him he's absently splaying and retracting his claws. Which, okay, shouldn't be like half as intimidating as it still manages to be.  
  
"You know what?" and now Stiles is gaining confidence, and he crosses his arms over his pasty chest and huffily makes what he likes to call his  _saucy_  face at Scott. Scott knows this 'cause he watched him spend four hours practicing it in front of the mirror and studying Lydia for reference. "Fuck this, man, you're just jealous 'cause it's harder to get any with Allison since her dad went all Liam Neeson."  
  
Scott nearly stamps his foot, but prevents the motion halfway through because that shit is not manly. "What the hell, bro! That analogy doesn't even make sense, I'm a werewolf, not a sex trafficker."  
  
Stiles shrugs. "Same thing." He cocks his head to one side. "But nice word choice with 'analogy' there, Scott, you doing better in English?"  
  
"C-plus, actually," Scott reveals with a modest shrug and an indulgent smile.  
  
"Oh,  _nice_!"  
  
No—no wait, no smiling. "Stiles, this is... this is... you—"

  
Stiles sighs and stands up, yanking his jeans up from his ankles and fastening the belt over his pasty little hips. Derek tosses his hands up and groans for like the bajillionth time, glaring at Scott.  
  
"See what you've done, you little prick? Now I'm not getting any till next week."  
  
"Shut up," Stiles shoots back offhandedly, and Derek narrows his eyes and splays his claws but his only retort is a mumbled, pouty, "That's  _my_  line."  
  
"Listen, Scott," Stiles begins. "I am tired and I am hungry and I am stressed out of my fucking mind."  
  
"What does the hungry thing have to do with all that?"  
  
"Nothing, I just am. But the point is—I go through a lot of shit for you and your werewolf ass, broski. And I do not get a lot in return. And if I need an outlet to relieve some of my  _sixteen years_  of sexual frustration then so help me god you will not begrudge me that!"  
  
("Oh God, he's making speeches again," Derek moans.)  
  
Scott stands stock-still in the middle of his room and stares deep into his best friend's eyes for a very unnaturally long moment, and ignores Derek's perpetually irritated glare darting back and forth between the two of them before capping off into yet another exasperated groan, and then Scott squares his shoulders, stands up straight and says,  
  
"C'mere, bro."  
  
Stiles nods, steps forward and embraces Stiles in a tight man hug for a good thirty seconds. There's a lot of shoulder-clapping involved.  
  
"I love you, man," Scott whispers earnestly against Stiles's neck, and Stiles whispers back just as sincerely, "That's a movie."  
  
("Is this gonna be over anytime soon?" Derek grumbles.)  
  
They finally break apart, both clearing their throats. Stiles shuffles his feet and Scott scratches at the back of his neck.  
  
"Oh right!" Scott remembers, pointing his index finger straight up in the air. "The American Association of Werewolves is in danger and we need to get them out of town!"  
  
"That's not a—" Derek starts to say as the three of them hurriedly shuffle out the window, but Scott and Stiles simultaneously tell him to shut it.  
  
Scott's feet hit the sidewalk and he breaks into a jog. "Hey," he poses conversationally, "Erica's boobs seem bigger every month, don't they?"  
  
"Oh, totally," Stiles agrees, and Derek rolls his eyes.

 


End file.
